


it's all alright

by celosiaa



Series: steady, love + appendices [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sick Character, Sickfic, rip they're both ill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25210159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Jon's ill--they both are, and Martin's doing his best to be okay.(missing scene from "steady, love")
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: steady, love + appendices [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826410
Comments: 31
Kudos: 208





	it's all alright

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back again? it's me! I've decided to add in some missing scenes from my fic "steady, love," which you can read on here if you haven't already.
> 
> you don't have to have read the first fic necessarily, but it will make a lot more sense if you do!
> 
> QUICK RECAP: Martin's got pneumonia, and spread his germs to Jon. Jon's just regular sick though-- Martin has pneumonia because the Lonely made his illness worse.
> 
> (Inner thoughts are formatted in italics. The EYE speaks in glitched text.)

“…No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,  
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,  
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,  
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,  
Still, still to hear his tender-taken breath,  
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”

Giving a soft smile and sigh of contentment, Martin finishes his murmured reading, setting his notebook of favorites on the arm of the couch and continuing to move his hand through Jon’s graying locks. He’d dozed off with his head on Martin’s lap nearly an hour ago, and Martin has been trying to soothe his restless sleep the best way he can. Placing a hand over Jon’s sweat-beaded brow, he feels an immediate spike of anxiety pulse through him.

_Fever’s up again._

This is, without a doubt, the worst day of Jon’s illness. He’d spent the morning wracked with fever chills, constant fits of sneezing and coughing leaving him exhausted by midday. Sweeping his gaze over the length of his rail-thin frame, a deep sorrow wells up in Martin’s chest, deep enough to drown him. Constant stress and grief and hunger have clearly taken their toll; the price steep enough to drive Jon’s body far beyond limits of what might remotely be considered healthy. He’s lost Tim, he’s lost Daisy, he endured the Buried and the Lonely just to save the people he loves and—

Martin hadn’t been there for him through any of it. 

There’s no denying that.

All he can do is wish that he were at full capacity to see to Jon’s every need in the present. As it stands right now, however, Martin still very much doubts his ability even to walk up the stairs under his own strength.

**_Pathetic._ **

He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

_No, that’s not true. You know it’s not._

_We’re both ill and it’s not your fault._

_…well, mostly, anyway._

Letting out a shaky breath, he allows himself a moment to collect all the small bursts of unease taking over his mind, pulling them together until they become something manageable. As if awake enough to read his thoughts, Jon shifts over his lap, turning to burrow his face further into Martin’s thigh.

Martin feels a blush creeping over his cheeks, and finds himself unable to resist the urge to grin down at him.

_I never thought I could have this._

_Never thought I deserved it._

He cards a hand through Jon’s curls once more.

_Maybe I don’t, but…I suppose it’s happened anyway, hasn’t it?_

_It’s happened and I’m so in love, I’m **so** in love_

_And he trusts me to be here with him. To be here **for** him._

_Even if I am just a soft pillow to cuddle at the moment._

He exhales briefly in a silent laugh. Unfortunately, this seems to jostle Jon’s skeletal frame—he sniffs miserably in response, sinuses still laden with congestion, before his chest heaves in a weak, echoing cough against Martin’s thigh.

Worry seeps into his bones as Jon’s body continues to shake with chills. Eyeing the blanket draped over the back of the sofa, Martin’s every impulse drives him to pull it over onto him—but he knows it will only drive his temperature up. He settles instead for rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades, guilt creeping steadily back in to strangle his heart.

_God, what is wrong with you?_

_You’re really going to let yourself enjoy his misery? Enjoy that he’s probably out of his mind with fever?_

_Because what, it makes him sweet?_

_Makes him want you?_

Martin pulls his hand back from Jon’s shoulders as if it had been burned.

_He doesn’t want you._

_How could he?_

Something sits heavy in Martin’s chest, threatening to bubble to the surface.

_…no. That’s not true._

_He said he loves you, and that felt more true than anything Peter ever told you._

_This is just loneliness._

_A falsehood of your own making._

Martin sighs shallowly, attempting not to disturb the infection still living in his lungs. Even with all this, with all his determination that his guilt is baseless—he cannot deny how much it hurts. He tries to reach out, to touch Jon again, to anchor himself, but finds that he cannot. Not with the constant doubt of Jon’s willingness to be comforted pulsing through his mind.

Another inhale, and—

His breath hitches at the top, chest burbling.

_Shit._

Everything that had been racing through his mind ceases to be at once, replaced by a singular thought:

_Don’t wake him don’t wake him don’t wake him_

Martin’s lungs burn, beginning to tremble under the lack of oxygen. Trembling quickly gives way to convulsions, his chest heaving with effort as he claps a hand over his mouth. Desperate tears pool in his eyes when the movement disturbs Jon, who furrows his brow and moans in annoyance.

_No no please no_

He can see his glass of water on the coffee table, just outside of arm’s length, and knows he will not reach for it. Instead, he tilts his head back, inhaling with caution, trying to convince the congestion to settle once again.

_Knew I should have taken those cough suppressants._

Jon had let him take them only once before. The first time Martin had requested them, it had been during another fever spike, and he had apparently been rambling—about how much noise he was making, how Jon needed to sleep, how Martin had done nothing but cause him harm. Predictably enough, Jon had scolded him thoroughly for this, only allowing him to take them when the coughing had prevented Martin from sleep for nearly twenty-four hours.

 _“You **need** to cough, Martin; you need to get it out,” _he had said.

_“It’s too loud, it’s too loud, you shouldn’t have to—”_

_“Stop.”_

He had taken Martin’s hands from where he’d been wringing them in distress.

_“Listen to me. It’s loud, and it’s **alright**. It’s loud, and it’s alright—I promise, darling. Please…let yourself get well.”_

The memory of these words rings through Martin’s mind.

_Please let yourself get well._

He makes a decision.

Shaking Jon’s shoulder ever so lightly, Martin watches as he half-sits up, blinking blearily at him.

“M’tin?” he slurs.

Martin looks at him apologetically before he erupts, bending over his knees to cough violently into his elbow, stars dancing in the edges of his vision.

_Sorry sorry I’m so sorry_

When Martin begins coughing, Jon bolts upright, regretting it instantly as a wave of dizziness threatens to take him straight back down. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, willing the feeling to pass as Martin shows no signs of letting up.

_Jesus, what’s happening?_

At last, he feels steady enough to blink his eyes open, squinting against the light of midday streaming through the living room window. The feeling of confusion, however, does not fade, and he’s all-too aware of his climbing temperature.

3̦̺9̗͋̈.̹͖͑2̐

_God, **shut up**._

With some difficulty, he turns his attention to Martin, who is still hunched over, his cough producing nothing but an endless churning. At last, some clarity makes its way into his thoughts, and Jon reaches out a hand to rest between Martin’s shoulders.

“D’you need the inhaler?” he asks in a voice far too low and nasal to be natural.

Martin shakes his head, of course, as always. Jon shakes his own head in exasperation.

_Stubborn._

After a few moments, Martin’s fit finally ceases, leaving him braced against his knees and gasping for breath. Knowing now that the worst is over, Jon takes the opportunity to extract himself a bit from Martin’s side, reaching for the tissue box at the far end of the coffee table. He glares at it in his hands for a moment, offended by its necessitated presence in their home, before handing one to Martin and taking one for himself.

Trying to clear his head feels like trying to force the ocean through a straw. His head immediately starts throbbing, ears popping uncomfortably as he does his best to ease some of the pressure. It’s to no avail, however. He ends up breaking off into coughs, harsh and barking and _painful_.

“God, Jon. You sound a lot worse.”

Martin’s hand is on his back now, rubbing back and forth with such a gentle motion that Jon finds himself swaying along. The tide is pulling him down, back to sleep, back to rest—

“I’m so sorry I woke you,” Martin whispers.

Jon’s eyes snap back open, and he turns his face toward Martin in confusion.

“Wh…what?”

Martin does not reply, instead removing his hand from Jon’s back and turning to stare out the window. 

Something about this does not feel right to Jon. 

“Hey.”

He places a hand on Martin’s knee, squeezing gently.

“Hey, look at me. Why are you apologizing?”

For a moment, Martin does not move, does not speak—locked in a staring contest with the falling leaves outside, until—

“Ah, fuck.”

Martin curses himself as he scrubs furiously at eyes, where tears have begun to spill over his cheeks.

Concern floods through Jon’s chest.

“Oh _no_ , Martin, here—”

He reaches back again for the tissue box, holding it out for Martin to take some. Muttering a wet “thanks,” he swipes at his eyes briefly, sniffling before he forces out a brief laugh.

“Sorry, god, it’s nothing. I think I might have spiked another little fever. You know how I get.”

He laughs again, and the hollowness of it darkens the room.

Jon can almost see him fading away, back into the fog.

_Not anymore, Martin._

He begins stroking a hand up and down Martin’s forearm, worrying at his bottom lip for a moment as he considers his words.

“Martin, I—I think we need to talk about this.”

“No no, it’s fine Jon, really I—”

“It’s _not_ fine. You’re…upset, and I—I want to talk about why. I think we _need_ to talk about it.”

At this, Martin lowers his head, the shame and embarrassment rolling off him so profoundly that Jon requires no powers of the Eye to sense it.

_I need to tell him what I know._

“Look I…I need to tell you something. It’s important, and before I start I just want you to know that I’m sorry, and that it was unintentional,” Jon says, words spilling out of him like ink over parchment.

Martin lifts his head, brows furrowing as he stares at Jon quizzically.

Jon sighs, running a hand through his hair before continuing.

“I…walked through your dreams, the other night. I didn’t mean to, I swear I tried to leave but—”

“Jon?” he says, ever so gently.

_A gentleness I could never deserve._

“Yes?”

“It’s alright, love. What did you see?”

_Honest. You’ve got to be honest._

He sniffs and clears his throat, trying to force his congested voice into something resembling normality.

“I saw lots of things. You were a child in some of them. I saw your mum and dad…how cruelly they treated you.”

Jon stops for moment, hearing Martin’s sharp inhale. Tentatively, he reaches out for his hand—which Martin takes at once, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I watched you cut your hair for the first time. How it made you feel. And…I saw you try to bind your chest with bandages, and end up in the hospital. Alone.”

He pauses again, breaking off to cough painfully into his elbow, and uses the time to choose his next words carefully.

“I—I know your parents always wanted you to be silent, to fade in the background. A-and I know that how I treated you at the Institute…”

He trails off, swallowing a lump forming in his throat.

“I know that hurt you. A lot. Um.”

Martin squeezes his hand, and Jon can’t help but smile.

“I just—I just need you to know that I _never_ want you to do that. To fade away. I-I _want_ to hear you, to listen to you—always, do you understand? I want to know when you’re happy, when you’re hurting—I want to be here for all of it, Martin. I want _all_ of you.”

Though his voice wilts and breaks and fades into nothing but a whisper by the end, Martin looks back at him now like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He tips Jon’s forward gently, pulling him into a tender embrace, Jon’s head pressed against his chest.

“Even when I cough so loud, I can’t help but wake up my ailing partner?”

_Partner._

Jon smiles against him, giggling for a moment before stretching his neck up to kiss his jaw.

“Yes, Martin, even then.”

Martin plants a kiss on the top of Jon’s head in return, and they settle back in for a second round of their nap.

It’s quiet, until it’s not—and even then, it’s all alright.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm all about that softness, baby :,)
> 
> thanks so much for reading!! if there's another missing scene you'd like to see (or anything else really!), drop me a line in the comments or on tumblr @celosiaa
> 
> (Poem at the beginning is “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” by John Keats)


End file.
